They stare at me
with astonished
horror in their
eyes. The rooms
hush and murmur as
I enter,
the jukebox skips,
the building
shudders.
“Is he eating his
own face,” asked
one of the lookie-loos.
“It’s so gnarled
and raw,
missing in the
wrong places and
too much in the
right ones.”
The truck stop eunuch
even
stops to stare as I
get my mug
of coffee. I fill
it to the brim,
drop in a straw and
start the long
walk back to my rig.
“Does it even have
eyelids,” says
a whisper.
“How does it sleep,”
asks another.
“Why are there
teeth growing from
it’s nose,” questions
a less subtle voice.
I grip my coffee
mug tighter in my
crab claw hand,
rushing a bit now
to escape the judgmental
stares and
whispered
accusations of my mother
spawning with the
Devil.
My bravery and
confidence I so boldly
approached the
doors with, is fading fast
as I hurry through
the long truck stop
oasis hallway. I just want to get out,
back on the verdict
less roads.
I get to the glass
doors as tears sting
my eye. I catch my
reflection in the glass.
There’s nothing
wrong with me.
Nothing at all. I’m
not all chewed up.
I don’t have a claw
hand.
I look back behind
me at the
small morning truck
stop oasis
crowd, the truck
stop eunuch has
his head down. No
one is staring,
no one can see.
There are no hushed
whispers or
terrified tones. The
murmurs are all
corn and coffee
rumors.
The TV hums with
news of the day,
traffic reports and
snow on the way.
I touch my scruffy
chin and my reflection
does the same. No
new scars, no holes,
no disfiguring
marks, no crocodile skin
or teeth out of
place.
I think it was all
a dream.
I open the door and
step outside,
it is cold and I
can see my breath,
I shrug my collar
up a little higher and
walk toward my rig.
“What’s with the
eunuch,” I wonder aloud.
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